Christmas at the Holmes'
by J. J. Moon
Summary: Mycroft Holmes: "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."   My take on what the Christmas dinner may have been like at the Holmes'. Just a little Christmas fun for you.


**Just a little one-shot I got the idea to write after re-watching the 1st series of Sherlock, from the line Mycroft says near the end of the first episode. Hope you like it.**

**MH:** He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.

(_A Study in Pink, final scene)_

* * *

Boring. Predictable. Usual. The same as every year.

Christmas was dull. Sherlock could never understand why people were so obsessed with it. It was always the same decorations, with the dying tree in the corner, the obvious presents, the over-dramatic meal and the irritating family. It wasn't that Sherlock disliked Christmas as such; it was more the fact that everyone else seemed to like it too much, and that people always seemed… surprised. How was any of it a surprise?

It was 1989, a rather interesting year, and for Sherlock Holmes, it was all due to one thing: Carl Powers. The boy who died in the swimming pool. He'd had a fit in the middle of the pool and by the time they'd got him out, he'd drowned. All very sad, but that wasn't what bothered Sherlock. Oh no, it was the details. You see, Sherlock had done a bit of research and discovered that Carl's shoes were missing. All the other clothes and belongings that he'd brought along to the pool were found safely tucked away in his locker, but his shoes weren't there. It seemed suspicious to him… but the police didn't think so… All he'd received for bringing this vital bit of information to their attention was a pat on the head and an insincere thank you. And then they'd done nothing about it, nothing at all. The police could be such idiots sometimes. Most times, really.

All this was mulling through the boy genius' mind as he sat at the dinner table, hand on his chin, trying to block out the noise and frivolity of his mother and brother who were sat to his immediate left and right. This Christmas, the meal was only a small gathering, just the immediate family: no obnoxious aunts and uncles, or borderline senile grandparents to distract him this year. Learning that had been one of the highlights of the day, actually.

"So boys, did you like your presents?" Mrs Holmes asked, smiling brightly as she dished up the rock-hard sprouts and questionable roast potatoes. His father was still in the kitchen, finishing off the turkey.

"Yes mother," the two boys chorused. Mycroft sounded annoyingly cheerful, and glared at Sherlock when he realised that his brother didn't share that enthusiasm.

His mother noticed too. "Did you get any nice surprises, Sherlock?"

Bad question. "No," he answered simply, poking at his food with his fork, his mind still on Carl Powers, and a way that he could convince the police he was right. He wasn't hungry. His brain power was focused on the problem at hand, and trying to digest something alongside this would ultimately slow him down. Not that his father had paid any attention when Sherlock had raised this point. He just mumbled something about wanting to be a nice, normal family for a day, and began mashing the potatoes with an unnecessary amount of force.

"Oh?" his mother replied, her smile wavering slightly.

"You bought the books in October when you went out with grandmother, after watching me examine them the week before. You brought them back and hid them inside your wardrobe. Not a surprise. The clothes you bought at a different date, beginning of November, and when you brought them home you gave them to father to hide in the attic. Not a surprise-"

"Sherlock," his brother, Mycroft, warned quietly as he watched his mother's initial happiness start to drain away.

"The child's detective kit was silly but not a surprise. After I told you my suspicions on the Carl Powers case, you would obviously get me something detective based. And your genius idea to buy it while I was there took the surprise away even more. Granted you sent me away to deliver that letter, but you should have known I would have worked it out-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft repeated, hoping to cut his brother off, but failing.

"As for the telescope, that was just obvious. Wrong, but obvious. You know I like science, so you bought the biggest science thing you can think of. But a telescope is astronomy; I research Chemistry. I worked out I'd be getting a telescope in March and when you went to that-"

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft snapped, finally breaking Sherlock out of his continuous dialogue. Sherlock blinked in surprise, clearly not understanding what he'd done wrong, and glanced over at his mother who looked very close to tears.

"Oh… well…" she sniffed, trying to hold back the tears and force a smile.

Mycroft stood up and went over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders in a comforting gesture that looked a little forced. Sherlock knew from his expression that Mycroft was more interested in keeping the scene calm than he was in their mother's actual feelings, but that was very Mycroft-esque. You could see why he'd got a job with the Government. "Ignore him mother, he's just trying to be clever."

"I don't have to try, I am clever," Sherlock mumbled, a slightly smug look on his face.

"Don't you know when to shut up?" Mycroft barked at him whilst patting his mother on the shoulder.

"Now boys, don't fight. It's Christmas," Mrs Holmes whispered.

"I suppose you'd know the answer to that if you hadn't ran off to London," Sherlock replied, a twist of emotion in his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"You're not still bitter about my new job, are you?" Mycroft sighed as Sherlock's stony silence proved him right. "I'm here, aren't I? I came back for Christmas."

"Yes, but you'll shoot off again tomorrow."

"Does anyone want any more sprouts?" Mrs Holmes' quiet voice was ignored by the boys, as was her desperate attempt to change the subject.

"It's a job Sherlock; it's what I've always wanted to do. Politics, Government, I can work my way up. I can be brilliant."

"You're not brilliant, Mycroft. Don't try to convince yourself that you are, you'll only be disappointed." And with that, Sherlock got up and stalked out of the door, locking himself up in his bedroom as he so often did when he wanted to be alone.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, following his brother out of the room.

Mrs Holmes couldn't hold out any longer, and the tears started flooding down her cheeks, her hands shielding her face and muffling the sobs. Mr Holmes walked into the room, smiling happily, the last part of the meal held proudly in his hands. He paused at the door, glanced round at where his sons should have been, and at his crying wife.

And promptly dropped the turkey.

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**There we are. Not much but it was quite fun to write. And it's Christmas after all, I had to contribute something =). Reviews are massively appreciated, even if they're just criticism. I need to know how I'm doing =).**


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